{"id":3064,"date":"2021-09-08T11:40:24","date_gmt":"2021-09-08T16:40:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.fanagrams.com\/blog\/?p=3064"},"modified":"2021-09-08T11:40:27","modified_gmt":"2021-09-08T16:40:27","slug":"the-day-i-burned-a-piano","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.fanagrams.com\/blog\/2021\/09\/the-day-i-burned-a-piano\/","title":{"rendered":"The Day I Burned a Piano"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"\"<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\n

I stand in the empty\nliving room, staring at the piano.  The gathering cold of autumn seeps\ninto the unheated farmhouse, the temperature penetrating and raw.  After my parents died, first my mother, then\nmy father, I have sold both their suburban home and now this weekend getaway.  I had asked Phil, the caretaker who lives at\nthe end of the driveway, to get rid of all the furniture and housewares.  I thought the job was done, but then he calls\nme about the piano.  Nobody wants\nit.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhatcha wanna do with it,\nMissy?\u201d asks Phil.  The closing is in a\ncouple days, ain\u2019t it?  Gotta get it out\nof here.\u201d  He stands next to me, wearing\na stained Carhart jackets and cracked work boots.  His cheek bulges with a\ntobacco chaw.  Phil lifts a cup to his lips and spits a brown swill into\nhis cup.  Its splash makes me flinch. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The piano isn\u2019t worth anything.  It\u2019s a  player piano my mother got for my father so he\ncould participate in music, do more than just sing in his beautiful tenor\nvoice.  He\u2019d insert a paper roll of music\nwith punched holes corresponding to the vented holes in the motor.  The\nmotor turned the roll and blew through the aligned holes to activate the piano\nkeys.  The keys would dance along on their own, and my father would lustily\nsing his favorite country tunes while his fingers hovered over the keys.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The player piano was the\nfamily joke.  Everyone sang along as we took\nturns at the piano bench pretending to play Darlin\u2019 Clementine<\/em> or On\nTop of Old Smokie<\/em>.  The ruse wasn\u2019t\nso amusing when my mother died and then my father\u2019s thoughts began to falter.  And then the paper rolls got misaligned with\nthe motor.  The  piano began to spew out musical gibberish that\nmatched my father\u2019s deteriorating mind.   <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Heavy seconds tick\nby.   Phil breaks the silence, \u201cLet\u2019s burn it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His voice echoes in the room\nemptied of life.  Weak afternoon sun animates a veil of drifting dust\nmotes.  A tendril of clumped lint hangs\nfrom the overhead fan.  One moth and a couple of flies lie dead on the\nwindowsill.   I wonder why flies always\ndie with their little feet in the air.  The moth lies flat on its stomach.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Phil coughs.  \u201cYou got a better idea?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Who burns a piano?  I reach out to run my fingers up and down the\nkeys.  Some have yellowed, some are\ncracked and one of the black keys sits at an odd angle, like a bad tooth that\nhas to come out.  I plink away at chopsticks,\nthe only song I know, and even I can tell the piano is hopelessly out of\ntune.  When did my father last play\nit?  Five years at least.    <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow can you burn a piano?\u201d\nI ask Phil.  \u201cThere\u2019s wire, metal and\nrubber in there.\u201d  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m stalling.  Phil would certainly know how to burn a\npiano.     He works at a nearby factory,\nbut on weekends he helped my father learn how to farm.  Phil knows how many cows to buy, what kind\nfeed to buy, when to send the cows to the butcher, how to back up a trailer. \nWhen a cow dies in the barn, Phil knows how to get rid of the bloated\ncorpse.  He can snake a toilet but also knows how to fix the\nsnake.  He is a boots-on-the-ground problem-solver.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHell, there ain\u2019t\nnothing that gas won\u2019t burn.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPhil, my father loved\nthat piano.\u201d  A couple of months ago when\nI first started to clear out their possessions, I was an enthusiastic\nthrower.  Old yearbooks.  Gone. \nSchool artwork. Gone.  Family\nphoto albums.  Sent to my brother.  The piano is the last item on my check\nlist.  I thought I was ready to start\nfresh, but now, maybe not yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t get you fancy folks.  This piano don\u2019t work no more.  It\u2019s worthless piece of shit.  What\u2019s your plan?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Phil is always one for\nthe practical point.  My father loved\nworking with Phil, had grown to love his rough language, and was in fact proud\nthat he unleahsed a string of expletives in his presence, a sign of\nacceptance.  Something Phil never did with\nmy parents\u2019 suburban friends.  Something\nhe never did with me.  When my father\narrived on the weekend,  Phil would hand him a list of chores.  I remember my father wearing his trademark\ncrisp khakis and cable knit sweater, shoveling manure out of the barn while\nPhil supervised from the fence.  \u201cRalph, put that shit over\nthere,\u201d he’d bark and then spit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After a career as a\nsalesman with demanding clients, my father appreciated uncomplicated physical\nlabor.  After his life of physical labor, Phil relished his role as\nsupervisor. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stare at the piano, reliving\nmemories of rollicking family sing-alongs alternating with the painful\ndissolution of an active mind.  To\nsalvage the first, I have to banish the second.   <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Who burns a piano? \nWell why not?  I turn to Phil and nod\nagreement.         <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Phil yanks the piano from\nthe corner, not realizing it\u2019s plugged in. \nThe cord whiplashes from the wall hits him in the thigh.   \u201cFuck,\u201d\nhe yells and then turns to apologize. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPhil, just let \u2018er rip,\u201d\nI say.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Phil waltzes the piano\nacross the room.  \u201cPhil be careful,\u201d I warn.  \u201cDon\u2019t scratch the\nfloor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAh hell, that scratch\nwas already there.  Another one ain\u2019t gonna\nmake any difference.  Rug\u2019s going to go there.  Get those piano rolls,\nthey\u2019ll be good kindling.  I\u2019ll bring the\ntruck around.\u201d  Phil shimmies the piano\nthrough the kitchen door and then onto the ramp between the back steps and the\ntruck bed.  I help him push, close enough\nto smell him, but he smells earthy and good, not what I expected.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I gather up piano rolls\nas they fall off the top of the lurching piano and follow Phil\u2019s tire tracks across\nthe newly frosted field, up the rise just beyond the barn.  The setting sun splays orange and crimson\nover the horizon, bracketed by banks of cobalt clouds.  I watch Phil\nwrestle with the piano, waiting to see if he needs my help.  Back and forth, it is stuck on something at\nthe lip of the truck.  On the count of\nthree, he gives it a grunting, expletive-laden heave.  It somersaults in the air once, skids down\nthe side of the hill and rests perfectly, peaceful in the pasture.  Phil reaches for the gas can.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The angled sun hits the\npiano just right, gives it a burnished glimmer, as if it sits in the spotlight waiting\nfor the concert pianist to walk out on stage. \nI tiptoe down the hill and place the bench in front of the piano.   <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Phil unscrews the gas\ncan.  I imagine seemy father walk from backstage,\ntake his seat, flick his coat tails, and settle in on the bench.  My mother beams from the front row.  The gas sloshes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPhil, can you hold off\nfor a minute?\u201d  Phil has started to swing\nthe can.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy ya want this thing\nfor anyway?  It\u2019s a fake piano, ain\u2019t it?  A plug-in piano.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s just that\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI got something better\nthan a shit piano.\u201d  Phil puts the can\ndown and points to the barn.   See them stones down there at the base?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I have forgotten the\nfoundation, my parents prized project. \nThey covered the cinderblock with stones, different shapes and colors,\nsome grey, some white and shades in between, arranged like an interlocking jigsaw\npuzzle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou father did that,\nyour mother helped too.  Dug up all the\nstones from the pasture, lugged them back over here.  I might\u2019ve helped them a little bit, taught them\nhow to mix cement to glue them in place. \nNever seen a pair work like that, digging and lugging.  That\u2019s the kind of shit work I even turn\ndown.  Just to make the bottom of a barn\nlook better.  Thought it was a dumb\nproject.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I see my parents, each\nwearing a straw hat, bending over in the field, doing work they would never do\nin the suburbs, the kind their friends thought peculiar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNow I like them stones,\u201d\n\u201csays Phil.  \u201cTold them it was better\nthan some pansy-ass garden.  Must be a\nton of stones in that wall.  It\u2019s\npermanent.  Will be there forever.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I nod at Phil, then raise\nmy hand as he starts to swing the gas can again.  I go down to the piano, open the bench,\nrustle around inside and am pleased to find the roll for Tennessee Waltz.<\/em>   When my father played this song, he would\nsing the first verse at the piano and then spring up to waltz with my mother.\nOne time a dance party erupted.  I danced\nwith Phil, awkwardly  He put up his hand\nto guide me and I felt his rough, corrugated hands.  When I danced with my father his suburban hands\nfelt just as calloused.  One fingernail\nwas missing.    <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I tuck the roll of music\ninto my purse and pat its side.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPhil, Okay I\u2019m ready now.  Let\u2019s put on a fucking good show.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We smile at each other as\nPhil hands me a gas can.  He sees me\nlooking at two plastic chairs sitting at the top of the rise.  \u201cYeah,  the wife thinks I\u2019m a pyrotechno-maniac, but\nhell, she likes a good fire.  Tried to burn those mattresses that you\nwanted me to get rid of, but then it started raining, so it wasn\u2019t much of a\nshow.  Let\u2019s get this piano burnin,\u2019 put\nup a hell of a blaze and it\u2019ll finish off the other stuff.  Whatever doesn\u2019t burn I\u2019ll bury with the backhoe.\u201c<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I help Phil stuff music\nrolls inside the piano.   I unspool some\nand wrap the perforated music around the legs of the bench, around the music\nstand and then around the whole piano.  I\nwant a good blaze.   I jab some of the rolls under the piano and\narrange others in pyramids at the base.  I\nfind the piano roll for Red River Valley<\/em>, another favorite, and add it\nto my purse.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Phil works alongside me,\ndrenching the piano.  The smell of gas is\noverwhelming, and I look up to brush back a strand of hair.  The setting sun is reflected in the windows\nof the house.  The dank, dismal house\nglows golden.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Phil\u2019s wife arrives carrying\nanother bucket so we\u2019d all have a place to sit. \nPhil works quickly around the piano, flicking matches toward the gas-drenched\npaper.    The fire leaps upwards.  Phil holds his\nwife\u2019s hand, and I see his foot nestled against hers.   Sparks\nblossom into the air and gently flow down like a fountain.   Phil flicks\none out of my hair.  We move our buckets back from the edge.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stretch my hands to the\nfire\u2019s spreading warmth.  A plume of black smoke rises from the\nside.  \u201cPhil, the keys are coated with some sort of plastic.  Lots of\nfelt in there too.  Don\u2019t know how that\u2019ll burn.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMore gas.   Mother, did you bring them milk\ncartons?\u201d  He turns to me. \u201cShe collects the empties from her school\ncafeteria job.  We use them to make firebombs.  You\u2019ll love this.  It\u2019s going to be great.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Phil pours gas into the waxed\ncontainers and crimps the tops.  I grab one and fill it up.  \u201cWhoa there Missy, don\u2019t overdo it.  You don\u2019t want to blow us up now.  Put two glugs in.  Don\u2019t need no more than that.  When you toss it, you wanna get it to land\nnear the pedals, get the fire going at the base.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Phil\u2019s first toss goes wide\nright, misses the piano completely.  I\ngive mine more of an arc and it bounces on the top, then tumbles down the front\nand lands at the foot of the piano.   Phil matches my perfect toss.   I\nwatch my little carton.  At first there\nis nothing and then a sudden whoosh as the gas ignites.  The flames lick up the side and climb into\nthe piano guts.  The fire is blazing\nnow.   I hear a pop, a twang, and then a\njumble of noise.  \u201cPhil, the piano wires are popping off in the heat.\u201d\n <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBest music I\u2019ve ever\nheard from that piano,\u201d says Phil.  The piano sputters and then collapses,\nsending up another spray of sparks.  Phil\nand his wife join me when I clap.    <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Embers emerge at the base\nof the slumping piano.  Phil turns to me\nand spits a blob that splats close to my sandal, but I let it be.  \u201cYou had good parents, ya know?  When I\nheard rich people had bought the farm, like it was a hobby, when I am busting\nmy ass at the factory, I thought it\u2019d be totally screwed up, but your parents \u2013\nnobody like them ever respected me.  We were friends.  How \u2018bout\nthat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPhil, why didn\u2019t you\ncome to the church service down in Chicago? \nI hope you knew you were invited.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thought of my father\u2019s\nfuneral in the fancy suburban church with soaring stained-glass windows,\noverflowing bouquets of flowers, a congregation dressed in coats and ties, a\nminister intoning a lifeless blessing, listing my father\u2019s accomplishments, that\nhe was a golf champion  and sang in the\nchoir.  He didn\u2019t think to mention callouses\nand a broken fingernail.  I\u2019d spent days\norganizing music, flowers, food, housing for out-of-town relatives.  Everyone said the same thing, that it was\nbeautiful, and that I was a good daughter.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

 \u201cAh hell, the wife and I, we\u2019re not church\ngoers.  Besides, I don\u2019t own a suit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He pulls a flask from his\njacket.  \u201cYour father gave me fancy scotch in this fancy flask.  I never drank this shit before.  I only\never drink beer.  I\u2019ve been saving it for\na special occasion.   Now seems \u2018bout right time.  Let\u2019s drink \u2018em a toast.  Yes, we was friends.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He tosses back a gulp and\npasses the flask to me.  I want to wipe the lip of it, get rid of any\nresidue of his chaw, but I tilt my head back.  The burn in my throat is\nboth raw and comforting. I pass the flask to his wife.  Together we lift\nthe flask, \u201cTo Ralph and Fanny.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sun sets, the fire sets,\nand the chill sets in.  We pick up our buckets and walk back to the empty house.   <\/p>\nFollow Liza Blue on: \"Facebook\"<\/a>\"twitter\"<\/a>Share: \"Facebook\"<\/a>\"twitter\"<\/a>\"reddit\"<\/a>\"pinterest\"<\/a>\"linkedin\"<\/a>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I stand in the empty living room, staring at the piano.  The gathering cold of autumn seeps into the unheated farmhouse, the temperature penetrating and raw.  After my parents died, first my mother, then my father, I have sold both … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[42,11],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3064","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-what-i-did"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p7iVc8-Nq","post_mailing_queue_ids":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.fanagrams.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3064","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.fanagrams.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.fanagrams.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.fanagrams.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.fanagrams.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3064"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.fanagrams.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3064\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3066,"href":"https:\/\/www.fanagrams.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3064\/revisions\/3066"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.fanagrams.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3064"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.fanagrams.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3064"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.fanagrams.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3064"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}